In “News Drumsticks” The Moustache of Wisdom offers us all some suggestions for what to talk about over Thanksgiving dinner. Mr. Bruni ponders “When Italians Meet Turkey” and says their Thanksgiving menu tends to sprawl. But then so do their feelings. Here’s The Moustache of Wisdom:
Thanksgiving is a time for dinner-table conversation. If you’re short of news drumsticks to chew on, here are a few you may have missed.
For starters, it’s true the world would be safer if we got a deal that curbs Iran’s nuclear program. But if the Iranians and their Arab neighbors don’t protect and preserve their environments, Mother Nature is going to finish them all off long before they get to each other. Read Chandran Nair’s essay in The International New York Times on Nov. 10 from Isfahan, Iran’s third-largest city: “The major artery that ran through the city was the Zayanderud River, a thoroughfare that nourished some of the earliest civilizations in recorded history and sustained the people of Isfahan down through modern times. But for two years the river has been bone dry. It’s not that its banks have receded; they simply aren’t there anymore. In their place is a desertified riverbed. … Wells have dried up and ecosystems have been destroyed.”
The crisis was produced by a prolonged on-again-off-again drought, dating to 1999, and populist, undisciplined water subsidies by the ayatollahs, trying to win support from industry, farmers and the poor. The doubling of Iran’s population in the last 40 years compounded the problem. But Iran’s rulers are afraid to cut back now for fear of triggering populist anger. Iran will soon need a lot of nuclear power — to desalinate water.
Speaking of population, it was a hot topic at the World Parks Congress in Sydney last week — the U.N.’s startling new population data. According to a Sept. 18 article in Science magazine, “Analysis of these data reveals that, contrary to previous literature, the world population is unlikely to stop growing this century. There is an 80 percent probability that world population, now 7.2 billion people, will increase to between 9.6 billion and 12.3 billion in 2100. … Much of the increase is expected to happen in Africa, in part due to higher fertility rates and a recent slowdown in the pace of fertility decline.”
We just added a couple billion more people to the planet this century! If the ecosystems and forests that provide us with clean water and clean air are stressed with 7.2 billion people here, what happens at 12.3 billion? Pass me some wine with that drumstick.
You may have missed this one, too: The Times of Israel reported on Oct. 24 that Israel’s president, Reuven Rivlin, decried “what he sees as an epidemic of anti-Arab racism,” telling a group of Israeli academics, “Israeli society is sick, and it is our duty to treat this disease.”
Actually, Rivlin speaking out is a sign of health. So was an essay by Shabtai Shavit, the former chief of the Mossad, in Haaretz on Monday, saying: “I am truly concerned about the future of the Zionist project. I am concerned about the critical mass of the threats against us on the one hand, and the government’s blindness and political and strategic paralysis on the other. … I am concerned that for the first time, I am seeing haughtiness and arrogance, together with more than a bit of the messianic thinking that rushes to turn the conflict into a holy war. … This right wing, in its blindness and stupidity, is pushing the nation of Israel into the dishonorable position of ‘the nation shall dwell alone and not be reckoned among the nations’ (Numbers 23:9).” Shavit said Israel should launch a peace effort, based on the Arab peace initiative, which calls for full peace for full withdrawal.
The same day, Ori Nir, who covered the Palestinians for Haaretz, wrote his own brutally honest essay, which said: “The Palestinians don’t have a national figure with [President] Rivlin’s integrity. I wish they did, because their society, too, is very sick, indeed, and could use Rivlinesque self-criticism.” One only needs to read the praise that Hamas, the Jordanian Parliament and Arab commentators heaped on the two Palestinians who murdered four Jews at prayer in a West Jerusalem synagogue to know just how sick their society is, and one only needs to study the continuing flow of young Muslim men to the Islamic State, or listen to the hate-mongering of Turkey’s president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan — who declared Israel guilty of “barbarism that surpasses Hitler” — to know this whole region needs a shrink.
Nir put it well: “Without leaders who inspire hope for a future of peace, young Israelis and Palestinians have lost the ability to dream, to envision a different reality. … I know that even if the occupation ended tomorrow, healing will take many years. But healing will only be possible once the two societies separate, so they can mind their own illnesses. We must let the healing begin.”
Finally, Ferguson, Mo., reminds us of our own wounds of mistrust we need to heal. The controversial verdict was announced the same day President Obama awarded this year’s Presidential Medals of Freedom, which also reminded us that we’ve been a work in progress in repairing our racial divide. Among those honored were the three civil rights workers killed in the Freedom Summer of 1964. Another was Charlie Sifford, a black golfer who helped desegregate the P.G.A. Tour and pave the way for Tiger Woods. And another was Stevie Wonder, who, as Obama put it, “channeled his inner visions into messages of hope and healing.”
That should be plenty to talk about.
And there’s nothing quite like discussing politics at dinner to make for a happy occasion… Here’s Mr. Bruni:
Thanksgiving Day is almost upon us, and I haven’t yet summoned the nerve to tell Uncle Mario and Aunt Carolyn, who host it, that I may not arrive until a quarter past noon. That’ll make me more than an hour late, which by my rough arithmetic translates into 12 chilled shrimp, 15 mozzarella balls, four meatballs, a medium-size plate of stuffed mushrooms and a sizable wedge of frittata.
That’s an unthinkable magnitude of forgiveness to ask for.
The Bruni family has a schedule, you see. A pace. It’s like a forced march, only a catered one, with prosciutto. We get going at 11 a.m. because we have no other choice if we’re to cram in all the necessary appetizers — and what I’ve described above isn’t even half of them — before we sit down to the main meal. It must commence by 1:30 p.m., lest we fail to do the dessert buffet at 3:15, the spread of sandwiches at 5:30 and the return of the dessert buffet at 6:45.
“Buffet” doesn’t really cover it. “Burlesque” comes closer. To wit: My sister is making three pumpkin pies, and she’s one of maybe 10 guests bearing sweets. Aunt Vicki is baking another six pies — three apple and three pecan — to complement the cookies, brownies, cupcakes, cakes and tubs of ice cream that various other relatives contribute. We’re something like 40 people this year, but still. This could feed 400.
Italian-Americans are a gluttonous tribe, and when we look at the calendar, we don’t see big moments and small ones, peaks and valleys. We see occasions to eat a lot and occasions to eat even more than that.
And Thanksgiving, with its focus on food and its veneration of plenty, is the ultimate occasion, the utmost license, our culinary id unbound. It’s when we’re released from our paddocks, ovoid thoroughbreds allowed to hit full stride.
One year I hobbled myself. I was trying hard to diet, and I actually showed up and murmured something about steering clear of carbohydrates, just this once. You could have heard a chicken cutlet drop. Cousins gaped. Nieces had tears in their eyes. Aunt Carolyn grabbed the edge of the turkey platter to steady herself.
I’d cursed in the temple, and my penance was clear. I had two helpings of stuffing, along with a bulbous buttered yam.
That’s a lie. I had helpings of two different kinds of stuffing. It’s a hallmark of Bruni Thanksgivings that there’s never just one of anything: no single vegetable, no solitary starch, no gargantuan turkey carrying the whole protein load.
There’s usually an equally mammoth ham in the mix. There’s stuffing from inside the bird as well as stuffing from outside. One casserole of sweet potatoes has marshmallow on top; the other dispenses with that sugary hood. Someone might like a particular version best, so it must be there, along with the yams, and each alternative must exist in a quantity that would be sufficient if everyone decided at the last minute to eat it and only it.
And pasta must appear at some point. We’re Italian. We have a duty.
Every so often there’s a suggestion that we cut back. This goes over about as well as my forswearing of carbohydrates did. Here’s the problem: Aunt Carolyn eliminates the mozzarella balls and someone invariably asks, “Where are the mozzarella balls?” She exiles the stuffed mushrooms and someone desperately canvasses every room and every table surface for them, as if searching for a lost kitten. She ditches the yams and someone goes into a yam funk.
A yam funk won’t do. It’s Thanksgiving! So she serves everything that she did on previous years and maybe, to amuse herself, something additional, which she’s then committed to serving forevermore.
There were Thanksgivings past when I considered all of this absurdly wasteful, outrageously unhealthful, even obscene. I saw us as a parody of ourselves, a plump cartoon.
Now I just smile gratefully and chew. The cartoon’s meaning comes into ever sharper focus. It’s less about gluttony than about generosity. The calories are proxies for something else.
Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Mario spread out everything that they do so that there can be no doubt about how much they treasure us. The rest of us bring everything that we do so that there can be no doubt about how much we treasure them.
We Italian-Americans exalt food because we Italian-Americans exalt family. They’re intertwined. Indistinguishable.
The day’s final image is always the same: Aunt Carolyn back in the kitchen, drained and triumphant, filling elaborate doggie bags so that each of us totes away enough white meat, dark meat, pasta, stuffing, corn, peas, pie and cookies to restage the meal at home a few times. If the eating doesn’t stop, the togetherness never ends.